Doom: Here Be Dragons
by Hawki
Summary: Oneshot: The fires of Hell had consumed more worlds than could be counted. But on one of those worlds, there was a different kind of fire. One that had denied Hell its prize. And the Seraph bid the Doom Slayer stand witness among the ashes.


_A/N_

_So basically this can be summed up as Bethesda making a joke at E3 2019 that they should put dragons in all their IPs and me going "okay, I'll take that bet."_

_Not that it's a bet per se, but, um, yeah. Drabbled this up._

* * *

**Here Be Dragons**

Fire had taken this world, yet not the fire of Hell. Not entirely at least.

The Slayer knew the smell of Hell. It had permeated sense, it had permeated soul, and it was the same smell across all worlds. It had been the smell that had consumed Deimos, as he roamed its blood-stained corridors, sanctifying the moon's interior with the entrails of demonkind. It had been the smell that had consumed Earth, as fire and fury consumed the works of man, taking the flesh of the guilty and innocent alike. It had been the smell of Io, as those spared the flame let relief turn to pride, and pride turn to hubris, as mortals probed the boundaries of that which was never to be known. And of course, Hell. Hell he had thrice visited before consigning himself to roam the Umbral Plains, to let the Legions of Doom know that his fury eclipsed their fire. That his wrath burnt as hot as the pits that spawned them, and his vision was as clear as a cloudless sky – they had to die, and he would rip and tear, until it was done.

This world, a wasteland, a barren landscape under a red sky, was little different. But the smell. The damn smell.

"You sense it, do you not, my son?"

Looking at his companion, the Seraph, he concluded that the angel must had sensed what he sensed. That, or behind his hood, he had the insight of an oracle, and the eyes of God.

"Fire," the Seraph said, his voice unhuman, like a whisper on the breeze, forever remembered, if barely heard. He descended down onto the Earth, as if Gabriel had entered the barren landscape outside Eden. The Slayer watched him pick up some dust in his hands, watching it drift away. "Fire takes everything, does it not? The fire of demons." He looked at the Slayer. "The fire of dragons."

The Slayer said nothing. Dragons. He recalled the word. Mythical creatures. Beings that existed in the folklore of mankind. Creatures that once, in another life, in another time, he had looked up to. A time even before he was sent to the sands of Mars. Before the gates of Phobos were breached, and he at last comprehended the insignificance of his soul.

"Perhaps you ask why I bring you here," the Seraph said. "Perhaps you yearn to return to the Umbral Plains, so that flowers may bloom from the blood of demons."

He said nothing, but whether the Seraph knew it or not, he wasn't far off the mark.

"Fear not – your bloodlust is of use to me, and I will not deny you long. However, I bid you gaze upon the fields of Tamriel, and understand the enormity of that which you fight against."

The Slayer grunted. He understood plenty.

"You doubt me?" The Slayer could imagine the Seraph scowling beneath that hood of his. "You, the Hellwalker, who is the first to have walked between worlds unscathed? Know that there are beings mightier than you, and they fell against the flame." He gestured with his hands. "Look close, my son. Behold the truth, and see past and future, while still your eyes are human."

The Slayer did just that, squinting through the shadow and fog. His helmet hung at his side, and he rose a gauntleted hand to peer through the gloom.

"Look close, oh Slayer. Look, and see brothers in bond, if not in blood."

The former marine wasn't sure what to make of those words. But at last, beyond the mists, he saw it. Saw _them_.

"Behold those who fell to that which they breathed," the Seraph whispered.

Dragons. Dozens of dragons. Big dragons, small (relatively speaking) dragons, huge dragons. A graveyard's worth of dragons, now naught but bone in the dust. He looked back at the Seraph.

"Hell came to this world," the Seraph whispered. "Oh once, it was innocent, unaware that the eyes of Sin had cast a shadow upon it. So unaware of the great arena, as the daggers of Hell fell upon one world after another. On their last night, the people of this world slept soundly, unaware that on the morrow, a bitter wind would begin to blow."

The Slayer shivered. A chill, bitter wind, was blowing now.

"And thus, the Gates of Oblivion opened," the Seraph continued. "Legion upon legion, bearing the mark of the Devil, let loose upon this world with wrath, and every other sin you could imagine. You, my son, have seen this before, no? On Earth, as you stood in the shadow of one of your cities. In a field green, turning brown and red, as tainted blood killed the soil."

The Slayer remembered. The fire. The grass. Poor Daisy…

"They fought, my son, oh they fought," the Seraph whispered. "But all worlds fall to Hell in time, one way or the other."

The Slayer grunted.

"You think yourself different? Will your Earth ever be the same?"

The Slayer lowered his head. He supposed not. He had saved Earth, but only in as much as there was an Earth left to save by the time his wrath was expended.

"Fire came for this world," the Seraph said. "But as the people prayed to non-existent gods, as man and elf, orc and khajiit, and all other sons and daughters of this place fell victim to the fire, the dragons at last joined the battle. A great fire, consuming all, even at the cost of their own lives." The Seraph extended his arms wide. "Behold, the bitter fruits of victory my son. Behold the truth of Creation, that Hell either takes the virgin soil of Eden, or the tree must be burnt from root to peak. For that indeed, is the burden of wisdom that I bear."

The Slayer looked at him, wondering…

"You wonder why I bring you here."

Well, that, and why the Seraph didn't do more. He had come to him in Hell. Given him abilities beyond that of any mere man. But why stop there? Were there other such creatures? Angels? God Almighty himself?

"Follow me my son, and behold."

The Seraph rose into the air and drifted across the ground, the mist parting ways. With a grunt, the Slayer followed him. Dust and ash accumulated on his skin, his armour, his soul, but the Seraph remained untouched.

"Here, my son. Behold."

The Slayer did just that.

"Behold that which will give you the strength of dragon. Behold that which will give you the fire you need."

The Slayer stared – it was a dragon's corpse. No bones – not yet. Its stomach had been torn open, but there were no maggots at the wound. No flies, no worms, nothing. As if everything on this world was dead.

Which perhaps it was. Either way, the Seraph stuck an arm into the dragon's belly, and pulled out something. Something as large as the Slayer's head.

"Consume this," the Seraph whispered.

It was a heart.

"Consume this."

The Slayer glared at the Seraph. He'd seen far more disgusting sights, but he'd never had to eat anything other than rations.

"Consume this, lest you meet the same fate."

Gingerly, the Seraph took the heart. Blood covered his hands, as so often it did. The fire of dragons was different from that of demons, but to the Slayer, their blood looked and smelt the same.

"Consume, or be consumed."

Frowning, the Slayer bit into it.

"Consume, and be reborn."

Slowly, steadily, he consumed the heart. Every bite was agony, every taste like daggers upon his tongue. Every moment of teeth reminded him of what he was once, and what he had become.

"Consume, and be reborn," the Seraph whispered.

He kept biting. He kept eating.

"Consume, and be dragon-born."

At last, he consumed the last of the heart. He glared at the Seraph, blood upon teeth and hands.

"You feel it, no?" the Seraph whispered.

The Slayer glared at him.

"There are words you may speak, but I know that your tongue is all but cut out. For indeed, what are the words of men but wind in eternity? What is the pen, but the dagger to the sword? What use is language against those for whom death is their duty, and hatred their wine?"

The Slayer couldn't answer. But…

But he toppled over, and retched. Blood poured out of his mouth. His eyes blazed with unnatural fire. Muscles bulged. His teeth burnt. Like being born, he wondered, or maybe dying. So often had fire come for him. So often had he given fire in return.

"The blood of dragons flows within you," the Seraph said. "You shall be this world's avenger, as you will be the avenger of all worlds. From Nirn, to Earth, to Argent D'Nur, to worlds that have lost their names to dust and history, you will avenge them all. You will drive the sons of Doom back into their pits, and let them know anguish. Pain returned a hundredfold, as all their sins are accounted for."

The Slayer rose to his feet. He felt…different. Stronger, yes, but it was more than that. He felt more than human. And less. Still silent, as he saw the Seraph make the sign of the cross, opening a door between worlds. From one where dust and death reigned, to one where fire and fury were kings together.

"Return to them," the Seraph said. "Return, and be the dragon. Return, and do deeds worthy of the Elder Scrolls themselves. Return, my son."

The Slayer put his helmet on and marched to the portal.

"Return, and rip and tear."

The portal closed and all that was left was dust and silence. A dead world, under a dead sky.

A world lost, but not unforgotten.


End file.
